


Children that Grew Up Too Fast

by LuciFern



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Career Ending Injuries, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Freeform, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Racism, M/M, No Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 09:57:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6190291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciFern/pseuds/LuciFern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fame doesn't come easy, nor cheap. Kids play at being adults while the adults pretend right along with them. Sometimes, you get hurt. If you're lucky, you recover. If you're not? Well, luck may come in different forms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Children that Grew Up Too Fast

The myth of being drafted in the first round is that your name will be remembered, immortalized like none other if you happen to go first. They say that because of your skill, you'll stand above the rest and all will hear and see it. And maybe it's true, a little bit; your name is recorded, written in the annals of time by scribes unknown and unimportant, listed in books and articles and halls of fame. People will hear it, see your face and that little notation: first pick, first round, first overall.

What they don't tell you is that your flame may burn bright, but it may also burn too fast, too hot. Your team may be desperate enough to use your talent _right now_ , instead of letting you grow just that much more, letting your body mature and fill out a bit so you're on the same level as those you're playing against. And the other teams? They will see that as a weakness, attack it - and you - relentlessly to push their advantage. That's the point of the game, after all, to win. And you win by knowing where your foe is lagging. 

Maybe they just check you, shove you around a little bit. Or maybe they knock your skates, shake your footing enough that you go down. Or maybe they play dirty, sticks and skates and fists flying to knock you down and keep you out. 

Or maybe you were never expected to have a showing like you have, been given a chance only to be scratched until they send you back to juniors and wash their hands of you quietly. Maybe you weren't picked first, or even tenth, but eightieth. 

Maybe you were actually thrilled with the trade, because the Rangers were great, but Arizona has a familiar face and a bunch of really nice guys that make you feel welcome even before you start the preseason. You impress them enough to give you a slot on the team immediately, and you show you deserve it. You make goals and assists and you're fast on your feet and connecting well with your line, even as they shuffle everyone around. 

Then you slump. And okay, it sucks but the team is still outperforming every expectation. Then it happens, and you get that feeling back. You win the game, doing what the last guy couldn't do, just slot it in when even you didn't expect to. And the fans go wild, the team goes wild, and it almost makes up for the shitting reffing that defines so many of your games this season it's actually easier to laugh than get upset. 

You hear the whispers, that your stats are unsustainable. Heard them before, but almost agreed with the sentiment when you were struggling. Except now, people are going crazy because not only did you not drop much in the slump, you _still_ aren't dropping. You're going up, and up, and up. And you give secret smiles because this is the game you love, and you wouldn't be playing so well if it weren't for your team. Because the team loves you just as much as you love them. 

So maybe you've heard the snide comments about how you don't belong, seen them made about others before you. But no one's ever actually said anything to your face or anything, so what did it matter? Someone opens their mouth after a hard loss. You're tired, you're all tired, and before you can get heading back to the bench, to the locker room, you hear that word, the one that you'd heard so much in New York. The one you'd read with a detached disinterest back home but had never touched you personally. 

And your teammate doesn't stand for it, is turning and throwing punches just a smidge after the other team starts landing them on you, and you're going down, down, down, and someone's screaming at you to get up, open your eyes, GET UP. 

You don't feel the pain when you wake up, but you know from the fact that you can open one eye that it should be there. And your best friend on the team is there, service dog pressed against his leg, comforting but not indicating a problem. His lip is a little split, nose a little swollen or possibly crooked, it's hard to tell. And he gives you this giant smile, relief palpable in it. And you think that you'll make it, just fine, because you've got him and the team to support you. 

They are, but you aren't. The team surrounds you, checking on you and making sure you recover, but you don't. You aren't fine, and no one can explain it, really. The doctors say that it happens sometimes. His smile isn't as bright, but there's still this fierce happiness, that he tells you is because you're still there, here, alive and that's the first time it really occurs to you that it could have been worse. 

Your mom wants to bundle you back up to Quebec, but the desert is in your blood now. You justify it by saying that it's happened before, that people can move past it and get back in the game. You don't tell her you aren't one of them. The team knows you're out, you aren't coming back, and you're forever left wondering if your stats would have continued all season. 

You file for a different visa before they can force you away. Allergy shots are now a reality because _he_ refused to let you leave his sight more than necessary, and you're still painfully allergic to his dog. 

You never recover, eventually find something that you can be passionate about that allows for your condition. You're still living with your best friend, even as he's living up to his name, his expectations. It takes you a long time, too long a time, to realize what's going on, but by then you're so used to being there that you feel awkward even thinking of leaving. You could leave, but don't want to, not that he's listening. So you close your eyes on the couch before the room spins from all the excitement, and the team is going crazy shouting at him to just put the damned ring on your finger because he really thinks, years after he saved you, that you don't feel the same way. 

So what if you weren't drafted first? Who cares if your name is forgotten to history? You can look back and see that maybe going back to juniors was better for you, can be thankful your draft team hadn't been so needy to use you long term before you were ready. You'll never forget how bright you burned, though, hot fast you burned. Can't regret it, either, because your best friend has finally explained so much to you. Sure, he tried subtlety, but post-concussion syndrome and subtlety don't exactly match. 

Besides. Now you get to tease him for thinking you'd have put up with the dog if you didn't feel the same way, when he tells the kids you adopted about his proposal and you not knowing you were even dating.

**Author's Note:**

> This started as something completely different, but turned into... this. The title comes from Living Louder by the Cab; the lyrics stuck with me and melded with articles I was reading earlier, only to spawn this.
> 
> Although no names are named, this is centered around Anthony Duclair, with Max Domi featuring as the significant other. Basically AU from the line brawl with Buffalo.


End file.
